


Third Time, But With A Difference

by Perfica



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: 2000-5000 Words, Community: kink_bingo, Crossdressing, Drama, M/M, Sensation Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-06
Updated: 2010-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-09 23:26:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perfica/pseuds/Perfica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody in the camp knew why Klinger persisted in wearing women's clothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Third Time, But With A Difference

After the epidemic of '50, '51 and, goddammit, '52, the members of the 4077 were old hands at combatting this particular problem. Like most things that happened in Korea, it wasn't something thought interesting or exotic enough to include in the history books, nor would those affected write about it in their letters home, because there were some things their families didn't need to know about.

The winter of 1953 saw everyone, from cooks to surgeons, move swiftly into action as soon as Lt. Betty Bradley (a pretty young nurse who had recently transferred in straight from the States) had scratched her head in the Mess and said, "Something feels weird, like my scalp is tingling. I guess I left my hat on for too long?"

Potter yelled out to Klinger to hit the horn pronto and try to beg, borrow or steal enough pyrethrin and permethrin to treat everyone in the camp. Igor enlisted the help of the guys in the motor pool to fill enormous drums with water and oversaw the boiling, stinking mess of clothes and bedding, as well as the smaller pots that clutches of nurses would take for the patients.

Benadryl was a hot commodity; even those not particularly itchy felt the phantom touch of lice on their skin and couldn't help but scratch. Hawkeye and B.J. made sure no one used kerosene (after a nasty incident two years ago that had seen Frank Burns suffering burns in delicate places and Major Houlihan screeching loud enough for the whole camp to hear) and advocated the use of rubbing alcohol on their combs and drinking alcohol on their insides.

The women of the camp were locked in a cycle of shampoo, rinse and repeat. They walked around with their hair perpetually wrapped up in towels - the risk of pneumonia overpowered by the need to wet comb - and could be found in small groups sitting under bright lights, magnifying glasses in hand, working sections of hair out from the scalp, combing and plucking and delousing each other while they discussed herbal remedies and debated the use of olive oil over butter, bemoaning the camp's lack of each.

Some of the men shaved their heads, even though Potter said it was an old wives' tale, and covered their baldness with hats and crooked scarves from years gone by. B.J. and Hawk had teased Winchester in the mess; something about how he must be used to the feeling of cool air passing over his pale, regal dome, and the Major had sneered that elegant sneer of his in a way that Max had become used to looking for.

Old wives' tale or not, Max wasn't shaving his head, but lice weren't particular about _what_ sort of hair they lived on, so he took his rose-scented soap and a handful of precious razor blades and hit the showers after he'd finished the three a.m. guard duty. The camp was sleeping the sleep of the drunk and exhausted and it was cold enough that Max's breath showed in brief white puffs as he let himself into the empty shower block.

He shaved his chest and under his arms, did his legs from ankle to hip, inspected his back in a mirror and decided that area was safe, swiped over his stomach and, looking down at his groin, thought what the hell.

It felt weird, being this smooth again. It was only the third time he's done it to himself and he couldn't even remember why he'd done it the first time, what reasons he'd made out loud and to himself, for shaving - the threat of body lice, the overwhelming desire _not_ to pay such close attention to his pubic hair, the tiny frissons of excitement that passed over his skin as he ran his stockings up his calves and over his knees.

The water was lukewarm by the time he finished rinsing and got out, rubbing himself down slowly with a towel, reacquainting himself with the feeling of skin where he'd previously felt pelt, when the door opened and a gust of cold air came rushing into the showers.

"Shut the damn door, you idiot," he yelled. "You're letting all the - oh. Sorry, Major, didn't know it was you."

Major Winchester tilted his head in acknowledgement, letting Max's insubordination slide as he moved to the side and pulled the door shut behind him.

"I didn't know you indulged in late-night bathing, Corporal Klinger," he said as his eyes scanned the scene. Max felt a rush of heat travel down his neck and chest; he was naked, the steam was starting to clear, he had a towel clutched in one hand and he was _naked_, bare-skinned even more than usual, in front of Charles Emerson Winchester III.

Who wouldn't stop looking at Max, taking in everything with that steady gaze of his. The chipped peach nail polish on Max's toes (and he'd meant to touch them up but hadn't had the time, what with all the washing and boiling and running around), the fragile knobs of his knees, his thighs and what hung bare between them, his smooth balls, the pale as linen sweep of his stomach, his flat chest, the velvety skin of his jaw usually hidden by the shadow of beard.

"I need...excuse me," Max said, reaching an arm out, plucking his robe off a peg right near where the Major was standing.

Winchester's hand shot out and the robe was trapped between them. Max's blood began to boil. Okay, it was looking a little ratty but it was his favorite. It was silk and it had flowers on it and Max thought the color suited his complexion. He frowned; he'd never thought that the Major was one of those guys that teased other guys about wearing dresses.

Everybody in the camp knew why Klinger persisted in wearing women's clothing. He wanted out of the war and that was the truth, nobody had even suggested he may have an ulterior motive for the hats, gowns and lingerie he bartered for and hoarded with avarical glee. No one had even whispered about his penchant for flowing fabrics and close-fitting pencil skirts; if they laughed at him in high heels, it was only because he had the tendency to wobble if he were in a hurry. No one looked at him sideways and no one spread rumors about him and goddamn the Major if he thought he was going to make Max's life more of a hell than it already was. Couldn't a guy like non-guy stuff without the ribbing? He wasn't hurting anyone, he just wanted nice things.

"Not this," Winchester said apologetically. Max allowed the robe to be tugged out of his hands gently. "It's a cold night and, whilst the style is becoming, it's hardly enough keep a lady warm."

Max stared but there was not a hint of teasing in the Major's face. Winchester was all kind eyes and stately forehead; he was acting the way Max thought _real_ gentlemen were supposed to act, a little more Humphrey Bogart, a little less Jimmy Cagney, not like those bums in Toledo with their rough, grabby hands and loud voices at the 'special dances' Max used to go to.

Winchester held out his own robe (terry cotton, royal blue) and waited patiently until Max bought a clue. He turned around and allowed the Major to slip it up his arms and over his shoulders, the fabric impossibly soft against the back of Max's smooth thighs. His head tipped forward as Winchester tugged the lapels closed and they slid sleek over his chest where it would normally catch.

"This," Winchester said as he slid his arms around Max's waist, "was sent to me by my sister, direct from a store that has been a family favorite for generations. It costs me five dollars a month to have it laundered but I think the cost worth it, don't you?"

Max stared down his generous nose and watched as Winchester tied a knot in the belt. He'd never looked closely at a surgeon's hands before but it made sense that they would be clean and pink, the cuticles soft and white, confident in their movements, not a single gesture wasted. Max's hands were callused and stained with mimeograph ink, the palms rough even though he rubbed cream into them every night.

"Do you, Maxwell?" Winchester breathed into his ear.

"Do I what, sir?" Max asked, trying and failing not to lean back, to not press into the broad wall of the Major's chest, to feel the stiff starch of his shirt through the soft cotton draped along his back.

"Think the cost worth it." Winchester's hands pressed heavily on Max's shoulders and they tightened and rubbed, once, twice.

"Sure," Max said, trying not to stutter. "It feels nice. Very soft and...nice."

He berated himself inside the privacy of his own mind - _Soft and nice? Really, Max? Is that all you had to say?_ \- and hoped that the Major didn't notice a part of him was no longer soft, was actually getting harder by the second, was probably going to make its presence known very soon if Max didn't get a hold of himself.

One of Winchester's graceful fingers touched the dip at the base of Max's throat, ghosted over the rise of his adam's apple and gently tapped his chin. "As befits a lady," Charles said.

The steam from the shower had finally dissipated and Max shivered. Winchester, still standing behind him, cleared his throat and, with one last pass of his hands up the cuffs of his sleeves to the top of Max's shoulders, gave a gentle push towards the door.

"Good night, Corporal," he said, already turning towards the showers.

"But Major, what about you? I've got your - "

"I'm sure I'll survive the twenty second walk back to the aptly named Swamp without catching my death. You may return the robe at your leisure."

It was on the tip of his tongue to argue but Max came to the sudden realization that he didn't want to. He _would_ wear the robe back to his empty room and he would take good care of it and, five bucks or no, he would have it washed and pressed and whatever else it was that kept the Major's robe so comfortable. And he'd return it clean as a whistle and thank the Major sincerely for the favor.

"Thank you, Charles," Max said, mouth twitching to grin when he saw the look of happy astonishment grace Winchester's face. "I always thought you were the type of guy who'd treat a dame right."

~~~

It was impossibly peaceful in the morning when Max woke up, still wrapped in the Major's robe. He should have hung it up to keep the creases out but he'd rewarded himself with sleeping in its cloud-like softness, the smell of the Major's aftershave woven deep into the fabric, especially in the collar, which Max had under his cheek.

He sighed and stretched, rolled onto his side and yawned, blinking when he saw his threadbare, flower-pattered silk robe folded neatly and placed on a chair beside his bed. On top of it was a white box.

Max scrubbed his hair and prayed again that he was pest-free. It wouldn't do to return an infested robe and he wondered why the Major hadn't thought of the possibility last night. He leaned up on one elbow and pried off the lid of the box.

Inside, on a bed of cotton balls, was a scarf. It was pale pink and as light as gossamer. It slid through his hands like cool water and, wrapped around his wrist, made his skin look like honey.

A note sat inside the box, discreetly folded. Max's eyes skipped back and forth over the lines, reading 'If hairs be wires' and something about roses and goddesses, searching for a name and finding, to his surprised delight, the initials C.E.W.

Max wrapped the scarf around his neck and tucked it under Charles' robe. It was a beautiful gift and would look amazing with his black and white faux Chanel morning suit.

He would wear it today and thank the Major when no one was around. He would tie it in a fancy knot at his neck and invite the Major to feel how soft it was. He would wait until the Major and he were alone and lean forward, put his hand on Charles' knee and tip his head back. He would try to distinguish between the feeling of silk at his throat and the slide of the Major's lips on his. He would make sure they kept at it until he could tell the difference, even with his eyes closed.


End file.
